Self-Portraits
by BootsnHats
Summary: Self-portraits from the character's POV.
1. Chapter 1

The Inseparables

Self-Portraits

My name is Porthos du Vallon, legitimate son of the Marquis de Belgard, though I learned of this only a bit ago and it has no substantial bearing upon my story.

I may be the heir to the Belgard estate, but I grew up fatherless. Motherless too, for the most part, since m'mother died when I was five, or there abouts. Never did know my real birthday, she never got 'round to tellin' me I suppose, since birthday's weren't somethin' we celebrated. In The Court we jus' counted ourselves lucky to be alive.

The Court of Miracles that is, where I grew up by m'self from the age of five on, wiv half a dozen mother's who fed me and looked after the whalen' on m'behind when I got too far outta line. Otherwise I migth'a turned out a lot worse than I did.

Wasn't a family in The Court didn't feed and care for extra kids, since disease and fever stalked our stews and alleys daily, plucking lives at will. One day you was there, the next you weren't. 'N, oh well, always a'nother to take the place of a lost soul. Weren't missed in The Court more'n a day or two, if that.

It was a hard scrabble life in those days, e'vn though we looked out for each other. Flea didn't have no parents either and me an her, we had the run 'o the place by the time we were ten. She was the best pick-pocket in The Court; she could lift a purse and a man never know it was gone 'til he went to use it, by which time she'd be on the other side of the Paris going about her daily marketing just as if she'd worked sun-up to sundown to make the money she was spendin'.

But I digress. You wanted to know how I came to serve at the pleasure of the king.

I 'spect you'll remember Cap'n Tréville tellin' General de Foix that I came to him. Not callin' the cap'n a liar or anything, but that ain't exactly how it happen'd. At least not in my memory. I know I didn't _go_ to him of my own accord.

I woulda been around ten when the old king died, some say because m'father plotted with the treasonous François Ravaillac, a catholic zealot, I've heard, who claimed he'd been told by God to assassinate Henry IV. From the little I learned of Belgard in the short time I hung around 'em, it wouldn't surprise me if he was in league with the traitor. In the end, whatever his prior sins, he got his just reward for his current vices.

I got no memories of life with m'mother on my father's estate. He was as much of a surprise to me as I was to him. Turned out to be a rather nasty surprise - for both of us. He was certainly not what I would have wished for in a father, and I clearly did not turn out to be what he wished for in a son.

Most of my adult life I've thought of the captain as the father figure I'd never had. It was a close run thing there for a couple a days, whether or not I'd find forgiveness in my heart for his treachery. And keeping that secret from me until de Foix wrenched it out of him. We've established the fact, me 'n the cap'n, that I _earned_ my place here with the Musketeers and found a compromise that allows us to continue working together. Probably helps that I wasn't raised by m'father and can't carry a grudge to save m'life. Tréville's flawed, like the rest of us, and scarred with the carryin' of this burden for so long, but he's a good man. And a good leader.

When I met him, there was no such thing as the Musketeers. The present company wasn't formed until 1622, by a young king Louis XIII, as a consequence of desiring to match Cardinal Richelieu's personal Red Guards. I know because I was already under Captain Tréville's command when the Musketeers were formed. Had been for nearly six years; I was nineteen when I was commissioned as a Musketeer.

Thing is, long about my thirteenth year, I got a touch of the crazies. Knew I wanted to leave The Court, knew I wanted a bigger life, a better one 'n constantly scrounging for m'daily bread, but I wasn't cut out for apprenticin' or workin' at a trade like 'ostler or store clerk. Would'a jus' ended up stealing the horses or the goods, since, in those days, stealin' was in my blood .

Me and Flea, we'd snatch ourselves a sausage or two and some rolls and find ourselves some nob's deserted garden to chow down in. Fountain ledges was grand dinin' tables, 'n we'd pretend we was eatin' off gold plates with fine utensils. We'd lie in the grass and talk about livin' in a house like that someday, with servants and all, then we'd find ourselves an unlocked window and sleep a night'r two in the master's bed.

I was busily laying plans to make an exit though, saving up a bit from each little job we'd do for Nark, the old King 'o the Court. Nobody could kill the man; he was like the original cat with nine lives. Charon musta got on 'is good side, somehow, since he became king after the old man - probably a good thing for me, though my brother's never would'a let me hang. Anyway, after Flea, me and Charon were the best. The three of us were a trio, workin' together, pickin' a mark, then takin' it in turns as to who would do the job while the other two distracted or otherwise set up the pigeon.

Until I got caught.

Doin' a job on my own; tryin' to nick an army uniform off the washer women's line. If I'd learned anything from the short time I was with my mother, it was to be meek as a lamb around a woman. Could usually turn 'em up sweet after a bit, but ... not this one. She was a man'o'war in full sail when she caught me. Dunno how she snuck up on me so silent like, but she did, had m'arm snatched up behind m'back afore even the thought o' running hit m'feet.

Now Aramis, he believes God looks after us all, rich or poor, saint or sinner. Not s'sure o' that m'self, but I ain't in a position to disprove his theory. Because that old besom marched me down the street to the army garrison - same that's become the Musketeer garrison now - straight up to Tréville's office.

I remember that day, 'cause he give me a choice - join the army, or appear before the magistrate. I was so scared I wet myself standing there in front o' him. I just knew they were gonna chop off my hands, or put out m'eyes, and then I'd be like old blind Bart who used to beg at the mouth of the alley that was the entrance to the Court.

What I didn't know at the time was there was no evidence that I'd stolen a thing. I'd only _attempted_ to steal that uniform jacket, it never came into my possession since Madame Besom caught me before I could get it off the line. I might'a got off lightly or I might'a been thrown into one of the hellholes they called a prison and never again seen the light o' day just for attemptin' it. I dunno. Never asked, 'cause I took to army life like a pig to a wallow.

Wasn' old 'nough back then, even to be a bugle boy, which did'n appeal to me anyway - I wanted to fight! So I worked in the stables 'til I was sixteen. Since I never minded hard work, and there was a little bit of gratitude in me toward the man who offered me a chance to fulfill my dream of gettin' out of the Court, I done all I could to make sure I earned my keep. Learned a thing or two 'bout horses while I was at it and worked m'way up to under groom 'fore Tréville put sword 'n musket in m'hands and told me to start practicin'.

Ain't never gonna be as good as Athos or Aramis, but I can hold m'own when it comes to sword fightin' n'shootin'. Gimme heads to bash though, and I'm better'n anybody else in the company. That's 'cause 'm big and brawny; few folk can match me for height and girth, a legacy of 'm father I realized on meetin' him. Didn' really spend 'nough time 'round him to figure out what else I inherited from him, sides that pile that's twice the size of the _comte's_ holdings in Pinon. Which I have'ta rib 'em about regularly.

I'd been with Tréville for about five years when Aramis showed up, trailin' his père like a pack mule pulled along with or without its consent. He wasn't much to look at then, still scrawny as a new foal and all gangly arms and legs, no grace whatsoever, but he sure could shoot. Put a musket in his hands 'n everythin' meshed like perfectly oiled gears. He could load, aim, fire and hit dead center on the target 'fore most of us could light a musket's firing mechanism.

Back in those days, most'a the recruits were from the nobility, younger sons straitened family circumstances had forced out of their feathered nests, or worse, younger sons who came to play at war because they had nothing better to do. I'd made 'm own place in the company with m' fists, but Aramis was'n a fighter; he was already a lady's man with those soulful eyes. He was used to horseplay, him being from a huge family 'n all, but not the malicious, jealous pranking his marksmanship provoked like weeds that grow up overnight. I let 'em roll him in the stable muck a time or two, 'n toss 'em off a roof onto the hay bales he had no idea were there before he landed, but I went to Tréville when I heard 'em plottin' a fake hangin'.

Every new recruit took it on the chin a few times 'fore he won his place, but that was takin' it too far. I coulda' stopped it myself, but Tréville needed to know what was goin' on in the ranks. Aramis, that _je ne sais quoi_ he's famous for now already giving him a larger-than-life quality, started carrying a musket over his shoulder. He didn't need me too, 'specially after he put a bullet precisely into the thigh - where it would do little damage, but hurt like hell - of a man who knocked him down accidentally on purpose, but I got into the habit of hangin' around with him.

We were the first Inseparables. In fact, the two of us were the first to be commissioned when the king tasked Tréville with building the new elite unit that was to be Louis' own personal guard; the first Musketeers. Athos didn't come along until nearly four years after the Musketeer unit was confirmed and had moved into our new headquarters on the _rue de Tournon._

I had'ta rethink Aramis' chivvying about God's will in our daily lives when Athos turned up shortly after Savoy, the _comte's_ plight challenging Aramis on a level that finally made him realize he wasn't the only one carrying ghosts around in his head. Athos took some bringin' along, but Aramis saw the gold beneath the dross and was willin' to put in the time to buff up the _comte's_ shine.

Personally, though I've never told Aramis or Athos, I think they were the saving of each other. Athos would have drowned in some bottle if Aramis hadn't insisted on pulling him out. And Aramis might just as well have shrunk into his own mind battling those Savoy demons if Athos hadn't come along to drag Aramis out of his own mind.

And then there were three Inseparables.

T'was a few years between, but long about 1630, d'Artagnan turned up on our doorstep, lookin' to challenge France's greatest sword master, and instead, threading the needle that had sewed up Richelieu's little plot to discredit the Musketeers, saving Athos from a firing squad in the prcoess.

It wasn't long until we were four instead of three.

Perhaps I'm wrong in thinking the identity of my father had no substantial bearing on my story, as it occurs to me my brothers are the true legacy of my dead father. Had he not turned me and my mother out that fateful night, I might never have met them. At the very least, we would not have met on equally footing, perhaps never experienced this camaraderie that is deeper and broader than most familial ties. For we are bound by blood mingled on battlefields, and not just the battlefields featuring sword and pike and cannon, but the battlefields of life as well.

My father had these bonds, too, and threw them away like so much chafe in the wind. Had I been mentored by him, instead of Tréville, my legacy might well have been bitter disregard for my fellow travelers on this mortal coil.

I am a fortunate man to have forged bonds that will never be broken, neither in life, nor death.

We are - and always will be - The Inseparables.


	2. Chapter 2

Self-Portraits

d'Artagnan

Hello mesdames, messieurs, may I present myself? I am d'Artagnan of Gascony. Charles d'Artagnan if you want the entirety of my name. But I am known around here, as are many of my friends, by my last name.

I came to Paris with my father six years ago, on a mission - I thought - to petition the king, never imagining in my wildest dreams that a farm boy from Gascony might end up a Musketeer. What began as a simple, straightforward quest to avenge the murder of my father became, suddenly, a mission to save the man who I thought had killed Alexandre d'Artagnan in cold blood.

God I was young. And naive. And quite full of myself, though I had no idea I was challenging the finest swordsman in France when I demanded an accounting from the man whose name had been the last word my father uttered.

Athos.

Athos of the Kings Musketeers as it turned out. Whose reputation I had heard of even in the wilds of Gascony, though I did not realize it at the time. And I was brash enough to stomp into the garrison demanding he draw his weapon or die upon mine. Perhaps not the best way to introduce oneself, but then, I have already admitted I was young. And arrogant. I doubt I would have been any less rash had I been aware of whom I was challenging. My father was dead, ostensibly by the hand of Athos, and I was intent on justice - a life for a life.

It did not turn out quite the way I planned. For one thing, Athos did not die, either by my hand, or at the will of the king. His friends, Aramis and Porthos, dragged me off a on a whirlwind tour of places and faces that eventually led us to the guilty party. Which turned out to be Red Guards impersonating Musketeers, several of whom died, including the man who actually did kill my father.

A mistake that, since Aramis and Porthos needed him alive to clear Athos' name. Fortunately - for me - Gaudet's camp yielded up enough evidence that the dead man's testimony was not necessary to gain Athos' reprieve from the firing squad he was facing when we arrived. I got the distinct impression he was not particularly happy to see me.

That impression was reinforced innumerable times along the road to Calais to pick up a package the Musketeers had been sent to collect and escort back to Paris. I tagged along, thinking maybe the swordsman and I could commiserate over both being wanted for murder, since the cardinal tried to pin the Spanish ambassador's assassination on me. Athos just considered it another bit of poor judgment on my part, though who knows if anyone would have believed me if I'd hung around instead of jumping out that second story window in a panic.

By the time we'd headed back to Paris with Father Grandier in tow, I'd had a chance to prove myself a time or two and wring a more favorable impression out of Athos. He did not tell Tréville to dismiss me out of hand the moment we rode into the garrison. For which I think I was properly grateful. Though the others may have a different perspective on that.

I thought I had a handle on sword fighting, thought I had mastered it. I had an instinct for it, and even Athos admitted I was 'pretty good', though he showed me just how good I wasn't in the first few minutes of toying with me. He taught me head over heart: don't follow every retreat, don't take advantage of every opening, wait for the right one, the right time, the right set up, practice patience. And made it look easy to do, which it wasn't. At least not for me.

For some reason I still can't quite fathom, since I know it wasn't my enchanting personality, they took me under their collective wings and I became one of the Inseparables. Not ... right away, exactly. More like they let me hang out with them until I grew into the 'rank' of an Inseparable.

Porthos taught me to curse like a soldier, cheat like an expert, pick locks better than a thief and have my wits about me at all times. I'm certain he's the one who convinced Athos not to throw me back to the dogs in those early days. He claims he's no deep thinker, but when Porthos has something to say, it's always smart to listen. Porthos is the reason I'm still sane after four years of unimaginable atrocities.

Aramis is the poet of the company, not just the Inseparables, and the most charming of our lot. From Aramis, I learned how to keep a secret and why it's sometimes important to do so. His early tutoring in this stood us all in good stead during the war. He patched me up after my second story plunge, and took me to his mother to mend my broken heart following my father's funeral. He's allowed only a handful of us to experience the changes Savoy wrought in him, that ability to cross over the bridge between here and there, and I am privileged to be one of the few. More than once I felt his presence on the battlefield as if he physically stood beside me again.

I know its clichéd, but Athos' bark is worse than his bite, unless you're a mortal enemy. Then he doesn't bother to bark and you don't know you've been bit until you wake up dead. Along the road to Calais and back we progressed from enemies to acquaintances to friends. He was never one to damn with faint praise and it took a bit to realize how much I was learning from his parsed critiques. Earning a 'well done' from him was more nourishing than any food I put into my belly. It was a widely known fact in those early days, that 'the puppy' worshiped the ground he walked on. Still do for that matter. Athos continues to be a larger-than-life mentor. I know he finds it amusing that his legacy is being passed on to Brujon.

I'm sure you know I am the only married Musketeer among the Inseparables. To their credit, and my relief, they have welcomed Constance into our tight-knit circle without reserve. Of course, they knew her long before I did as she was the wife of the cloth merchant Tréville used for uniform supplies. Athos, she told me in confidence just recently, used to detox at her place when Bonacieux was gone. They know one another rather intimately.

The course of true love did not run smoothly in our case, especially as Madame Bonacieux was married when I met her. It is not much to my credit that I pursued her even in her married state and it's probably all kinds of wrong to consider a death a gift from a benevolent God, but I was grateful nonetheless. More grateful that the manner of her husband's passing and his last words did not tangle our relationship in a web of guilt.

War came upon us - not unexpectedly, but certainly more swiftly than anyone had imagined. We were two months married when the Musketeer regiment was ordered to the front. I was sure, as I rode out under a bright Parisian sun that morning, that I would be home soon and often, but that did not turn out to be the case.

While war is often boring, with long periods of marching or sitting about waiting, it is never restful. Even when we had leave, we were too exhausted to make the long journey to and from Paris in the short amount of time allotted. It was four years before I beheld the love my life again. And she was not the girl I'd left behind.

We are embroiled in a different kind of war here in Paris. A seditious, unprincipled, back alley scum kind of war that slinks like rats out of the sewer to prey upon the unsuspecting. Here, there are no distinguishing uniforms, no demarcating flags marking boundaries, no sidelines from which to assess the enemy; we have no idea who is friend or foe. Porthos says we left behind a clean war for the back-stabbing, cesspit Paris has become. I couldn't agree more.

My fellow war heroes will tell you that cannon and musket fire, bayonet and pike charges, fox holes and firestorms burnt out some of that youthful brashness. To an extent they are correct. The doctrines of war have been inked not just upon my body, but as Aramis points out, on our internal ethical maps as well.

I am changed, it is true, in ways the youth from Gascony could never have imagined. In one thing though, I remain purposed and true, Hubert in his last moments on earth, reawakened what war atrocities had lulled to sleep. Justice for all is why I serve at the pleasure of the king, even when it conflicts with the king's commands.

* * *

 _This has been a work of transformative fan fiction. The characters and settings described in this story are the property of the British Broadcasting Company, its successors and assigns; the story itself is the intellectual property of the author. No copyright infringement has been perpetrated for financial gain._


	3. Chapter 3

Self- Portraits

Aramis

 _"God, if you spare her and by some miracle, I am allowed to live, I vow to devote all my remaining days to your grace. I will renounce all worldly temptations, I will ... even my duty ... I am not worthy of your mercy ... my soul is prepared..." S2:E10_

Enchanté, mesdames, mesdemoiselles et messieurs. Rène d'Aramitz at your service, though I am called Aramis. And I serve, again, at the pleasure of the king. Or more likely, at the annoyance of the king. Which honestly compels me to admit has some merit, though it came to pass through his own neglect and abuse of his marriage.

But that reeks of attempting to white wash my treason, and I cannot claim moral high ground. My actions were just as consequential - and wrong - as the king's. But that comes later in my _Mémoires._

I am the middle child, with five older and five younger siblings. Destined from birth for a career in the church according to my mother. We were gentry of a sort, land owners, but without the acreage, and therefore the income, to be self-sufficient or titled. So we worked from sunup to sundown except on the Sabbath, to put food on the table, clothes on our backs and a bit extra in the poor box every Sunday. Mine was an idyllic childhood I know now, though like all boys I chafed under the oppression of those rules that are meant to be a hedge of safety until maturation teaches us caution. We had responsibilities from an early age, but we also had the freedom to roam far and wide when our chores were done. And those chores were never onerous.

With so many of us to feed, hunting was a part of daily life. At seven, my father put a fowling piece into my hands, and thus began my first love affair. There was an instant, mutual affinity. As I grew into that affair, guns began to whisper their secrets to me, coyly showing off their individual personalities, revealing their intimate intricacies. We became fast friends.

Weapons of any kind were not permitted at the abbey school where I was tutored from the time I was ten, though that did not stop me smuggling my beloved musket back with me on returning from my first visit home. Rules for me were merely behavioral guidelines, and the familial pile, only a few leagues distant, was a constant draw. I liked being with boys my own age, there were seven of us and I was again, the middle one, but home drew me like a beacon. Maman kept returning me, though I assured her just as many times as she scolded me for running away, that I was merely visiting home, not deserting; I never left before my school work and chores were done.

Even though I was not the oldest, the others gravitated to my leadership, drawn I suppose, by the flame of adventure that burned brightly in my young heart. My friends soon became regular visitors in our home as well and eventually the priests gave up trying to contain us. As long as we appeared at our lessons and accomplished our assigned tasks with something above mediocrity, we were allowed a lot of latitude. I took for granted all abbeys ran on the same principles and discovered too late, our abbot had been far more forward-thinking than most.

We were a rambunctious lot, always scraping knees and bumping heads, returning from our adventures with stings and bites and the occasional accidental knife slash when horseplay got too rough. Rather than run to Brother Faucheux, who would cluck and scold and dole out rewards, as he liked to call his discipline of our backwards behavior, I fell into the habit of tending to those superficial wounds. After all, my mother was the village healer, she'd sent all us herb gathering practically from the time we could toddle along on our own. There was a not a d'Aramitz family member who didn't know the properties of every medicinal herb God had created and how to use them by the time we were eight or nine.

Brother Fauchexu did eventually figure out what we were up too, but rather than forbid it, he made it his mission to deepen and broaden my knowledge of herb lore, imparting to me his vast store of knowledge as well. Now I see that he recognized an opportunity to impart his wisdom so it would not be lost. He was much on my mind during my time in the Douai abbey, where I was forbidden to undertake any duty that might tempt me back to my old life, including the practice of healing.

My schooling ended abruptly one bright autumn afternoon when Abbot Langlois came upon us practicing target shooting in the church graveyard. Just as I shot an apple off the head of Émile. In the abbot's defense, he was a gentle man, who - like the Abbot of Douai - believed wholly in his shield of faith; he had no traffic with weaponry of any kind. And I suppose the exploding apple might have looked like .. brains. At any rate, he fainted dead away and when we woke him with a pail of water, he arose, marched me down the country lanes and byways to my parental home and informed my father I was no longer a student at the Abbey of Saints Peter and Paul.

My abrupt change in status, though it would have happened shortly anyway, as I was to turn sixteen in less than a month, did not go down well with my mother. Or my father, whose sole purpose in life was to make my mother happy. My father gave me an ultimatum - the army or my older brothers' stud farm. My mother made the choice.

I was not exactly rebellious, but neither was I particularly cooperative, though my exasperated brothers tried to instill in me their love of equines. I learned to be one with a horse as a rider, but horses did not whisper their secrets to me, nor did I have any desire to learn their intimate intricacies. Foaling, while a thing of beauty to behold, did not steal my breath away like the caress of a flintlock against my cheek.

For my 17th birthday, in October of 1619, I got my wish. My father took me to Paris to enlist. Fortune - or fate - landed me under the command of one M. Tréville, captain of the Louvre garrison.

Tréville, in those days, was in the business of training cadets and I found myself in the middle again - between the privileged younger sons of nobleman and a slum-raised giant of a youth who obviously had an in with the captain, though it was clear he was well-respected by the younger sons as well. I fit into neither world and found myself on the outside, instead of the ring leader.

Nature, for some odd reason, imbues us with the innate ability to be absolutely certain about anything and everything at that age. We believe ourselves to be walking, talking works of art, though we do not extend the courtesy of that belief to anyone else. We alone are the center of the universe and everyone else should recognize it and act accordingly. Not even siblings can root out that belief.

I knew I was good; Tréville had not been forthcoming with the standard praise I was used to receiving from adults, but I was already a keen observer of humanity and recognized the gleam in his eye. I saw no reason not to make everyone aware of my brilliance, just so they understood I belonged among them, that I deserved their adulation and praise. What I got, as the old saying goes, was taken down a peg or two.

If it hadn't been for Porthos, I would have folded my tents and snuck out as I'd done so often from school. He was far more observant than I'd given him credit for. He took me to a flogging in the Tulleries, briefly explaining along the way, the man was a deserter. We returned to the barracks and I returned the supplies I'd been gathering for my own departure, to their assigned places.

Porthos never mentioned it again, though from that day forward our friendship was cemented. It was a whole new education to pal around with him, he had so much more life experience than I, having grown up mostly self-raised in the teeming denizen of the Court of Miracles, where Paris' criminal elements lived cheek-by-jowl with the poorest of the city's inhabitants. I was as appalled as I was fascinated by the things he knew. And it was Porthos who first introduced me to fishing for a patron, though he could not have known where it would lead me.

For Porthos is was a game in order to meet a need, usually monetary. As far as he was concerned, women required far too much work. I ... well, suffice it to say, I did not find it _work_ at all. I discovered Paris was a flower garden of sweet-scented blossoms just waiting for the right man to gather their essence. By day I was training to be a sharpshooter, by night a daring street Romeo from whom no balcony was safe.

Because the garrison was a training facility rather than a mobile unit, there was a high rate of turnover among the cadets as they were assigned to other regiments on completion of their instruction. Depending on skill level, and my marksmanship put me in the top rankings, most cadets spent no more than a year under Tréville's command, though Porthos had been with Tréville for five years already when I arrived. There was no formal graduation as such, when your skills were honed to the point Tréville believed you were prepared, you moved on.

As my 18th birthday approached, I was in daily expectation of receiving notice of my new posting. Porthos and I - when I was not off pollinating my growing garden - had become close friends. We were each other's shadow. He'd taught me to fight, and when necessary, how to fight to win; I'd taught him to shoot straight and where to aim most effectively to disable, or kill if necessary. He taught me how to lose a tail, how to cheat without getting caught, and how to drink without waking up to the after affects of overindulgence. I taught him to shoot melons off my head, though he's better at it when he's drunk than when he's sober; no worries about shooting _me_.

It was not unexpected when the call to Tréville's office finally caught up with me. Porthos was, for once, tight-lipped, though he often knew who was posting where well before the cadet himself knew where he was going. I'm not ashamed to admit I entered the guardhouse attached to the captain's office with a fair amount of trepidation. With all the confidence of youth's indestructibility, I was anxious to test my skills in a real battle, but I did not want to leave my friend behind. I was prepared to beg to stay or ask for Porthos to be posted with me.

I did not have to do either.

Forgive me, I digress, but this has bearing on my fate as a Musketeer. Captain Tréville had been amongst Louis' father's retinue as an aide de camp to the Duc de Sully, chief minister under Henry IV. He had befriended the young dauphine, we found out much later, out of boredom. The resulting friendship had carried over when 9-year-old Louis' father was assassinated and the dauphine became king of France.

Tréville's role in the rout of the Medici-Orléans attempted revolt eight months earlier, aided and abetted by Porthos' uncanny ability to collect the oddest bits of seemingly unimportant news, had sealed the captain's status as advisor to our monarch. Following that February dénouement, rumors had begun to fly of a new regiment to be founded as the king's own personal guard.

That October afternoon, Captain Tréville confirmed the rumor, and informed me I was to be among the first who would be commissioned directly by the king as an elite company to be known as the King's Musketeers. The words 'elite' and 'obviously you will be stationed in Paris' were the most important I heard that day.

It was another year and a half before it came to pass; in January of 1622, Porthos and I were the first to be commissioned as King's Musketeers. There were twenty of us that day; by the time the Musketeer headquarters were moved to a large hôtel located in the _rue de Tournon_ near the Luxembourg gardens, our ranks had swelled to two hundred.

Our work was not arduous and in fact, our status garnered us invitations to the most prestigious parties of the day. We were often in the homes of the rich and famous, ripping away on the tennis courts or in the fencing salons, and equally as often on the dueling fields. Nothing at all like the life I had expected to live. I cannot say I missed the deprivation or life constantly on the move, but I was better with pistol and musket than a sword and dueling did not did not excite me. In short, I was bored. So I was the first to volunteer for the training mission to Savoy. Porthos and I had had a falling out over some silly thing, neither of us can even remember what it was anymore, but I had taken up with another sharpshooter by the name of Marsac in his absence. Tréville appointed Marsac and I to lead, since Porthos refused to go.

I'm grateful he was not there for more reasons that I can count, but mostly because he did not die alongside the twenty young men who did. Savoy burned away my youth and tempered the man who rose, finally, from those ashes. Porthos stood by me throughout the long struggle to find my way back to the living.

Somewhere in that time frame, Tréville, to my surprise, turned down the request of France's greatest sword master to purchase a commission. He was not happy when we presented him with our save-the- _comte_ scenario, but he let us keep Athos, who turned out to be one of the Musketeers most valuable assets. Porthos says saving Athos was the saving of Aramis as well. I did not consciously recognize it, but I can see, looking back, that there was a dawning recognition that I could easily slide down the same rabbit hole of guilt we were trying to pull Athos out of.

Only a couple of years later, the puppy turned up on our doorstep, growling as though he was a full grown mastiff up to any challenge. The kid was hurt, he'd thrown himself out a second story window on discovering he'd been set up for the murder of the Spanish ambassador, and still he came stomping into the garrison, apparently with every expectation he held the winning hand.

You know how it is when a puppy follows you home, it's hard to get rid of them, they're too cute to kick back out in the street and before you know it they're sleeping in your bed and chewing on your boots. d'Artagnan carved out a space among the Inseparables just about as quickly.

And then I blew it all up as effectively as if I'd a tossed a bomb into our midst.

One would think, after all my years of assiduous cultivation, and given with whom I was euphemistically 'sleeping', I should have had the sense to prevent conception. Even if neither of us expected to live through the next day.

If Athos hadn't needed me and my skill with firearms to at least keep up the pretense of trying to save ourselves, he might have shot me himself.

I did not mean to _bargain_ with God when the consequences of my actions caught up with me. Adele, Isabella, and though I did not know it at the time, Marguerite ... dead. Constance to be executed, Tréville and the remaining Inseparables as well, if Rochefort won the day.

Desperation does not become the uniform, but I could not leave anything to chance if it was within my purview to affect the balance of power. And so I did the only thing left to me - I prayed. I made a vow to God to devote all my remaining days to his grace, to renounce all worldly temptations, even my duty.

And when it was over, when I had been reunited with my brothers and released with the king's blessing, I left them standing on the leafy path and walked away without looking back.

I thought standing in that chamber that served as my court room, parsing every word that came out of my mouth, knowing I was damning my immortal soul just as Rochefort claimed, had been the hardest thing I'd ever do. Alone and friendless in that chamber, my head told me I'd been deserted, that my friends were distancing themselves from my treason, that I would die alone as well.

But I was wrong.

And my heart knew better.

Walking away was the hardest thing I'll ever have to do no matter if I live to be one hundred. I knew if I stayed one moment more, Athos would have been reminding me of the innumerable times I'd told him God doesn't require expiation. Porthos would have been hollering about coerced promises and d'Artagnan would have just looked at me with those huge, puppy dogs eyes and probably leaked all over the place. My vow would have been broken on the wheel of friendship before the echo of words in the prison cell had died away.

While Douai was not what I expected, it _was_ a sanctuary of sorts, where I could take the time to dredge my soul and offer up a broken and contrite heart without a shred of expectation of it ever being mended. I found neither joy nor peace in a life of contemplation and would have turned up mad as Rochefort if it hadn't been for the children.

I have not perfected my faith, it is yet a work in progress, but I _can_ tell you this, mesdames, mesdemoiselles et messieurs, I know that God hears our prayers and rewards even the smallest crumb of faith. For by some miracle, not only am I alive, I am Aramis, formerly of the King's Musketeers, now - First Minister of France.

* * *

 _This has been a work of transformative fan fiction. The characters and settings in this story belong to the British Broadcasting Company, its successors and assigns; the story itself is the intellectual property of the author. No copyright infringement has been perpetrated for financial gain._


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